


Skin Deep

by SinnamonSpider



Series: Otherwheres: Supernatural AU Bingo Challenge [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, First Time, Frottage, M/M, Tattoo Artist Dean, Tattoos, Workplace Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 15:28:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13504404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinnamonSpider/pseuds/SinnamonSpider
Summary: The guy jumped to his feet and Dean realized how tall he really was. “Look, I’ll explain. I, uh - I lost a bet, and the punishment is that I have to get a tattoo. Today.”Dean arched his eyebrow. “That’s a really bad idea,” he said flatly.





	Skin Deep

**Author's Note:**

> For the SPN AU Bingo Challenge. Square filled is "tattoo artist!Dean".
> 
> For the purpose of this challenge, in this fic and all others, Dean's last name is Smith and Sam's is Wesson, but they are not necessarily the Smith/Wesson from "It's a Terrible Life". I just want to keep their surnames simple and consistent.
> 
> Despite having three tattoos, one of which is less than 24 hours old, I of course know absolutely nothing about being an artist. I'm pretty sure it's unspeakably bad tattoo artist etiquette to bang a client midway through a piece, but oh well. 
> 
> I started out thinking I could wrap this up in like 1500 words. What a fool I am...
> 
> Feedback is the delight of my life.

The bell above the door tinkled as the door swung open, and Dean bit back the curse that hovered on his lips at the hated sound. Sparing a look up from his client, he blinked at the person who had just entered the shop. 

A tall guy with shoulder length hair framed a face that was deathly pale treaded water just inside the door. He looked around the shop, chewing his lower lip. 

“Hey man, what can we do for you?” Dean called out, even as he cast around for someone else to help the guy. Charlie, Kevin - everyone seemed to have disappeared, and he was barely halfway through his piece. 

“Uh, do you take walk-ins?” the guy asked, an audible quaver in his voice. He continued to look around, and Dean could see, even from across the shop, the glisten of sweat on his brow. 

Dean sighed. “In theory, yeah we do,” he replied. “But right now I’m apparently alone in this fucking place and I’m kinda in the middle of something.” He lowered his eyes back to his work. “If you wanna hang around until I’m done or until one of the idiots I work with comes back, feel free.” 

He lifted the gun again, the buzzing sound of the motor drowning out any reply the guy might have given. It wasn’t, however, loud enough to drown out the ringing of the phone, or Dean’s demand of “Does anyone else fucking work here?!” 

Kevin appeared through the back of the shop. “Calm down, bro.” 

“Calm down hell,” Dean snapped back. “Fucking phone ringing, dude wants a walk-in, and I’m ass-deep in a fucking dreamcatcher. No offense.” The last sentence was directed at Dean’s client, who gave an arch look over her shoulder to where Dean’s face was close to her body, working on her lower back. 

He heard Kevin ignore the phone, as evidenced by the continuous ringing, likely in favour of talking to the tall guy; he could heard the low tones of their conversation, but not the details. Pushing the invasive sounds out of his mind, Dean leaned in closer, working on the last of the feather detailing that extended down towards his client’s ass. 

She moved under his hands without warning, arching her back, and he pulled back sharply, biting back a curse. “You can get a little closer, if you want,” she said, just loud enough for him to hear over the buzzing of the gun. Her dark eyes watched him. 

Dean frowned. “Not interested, thanks. And you move like that again, you’re gonna have a fucked-up piece and I’m gonna charge you double to fix it, ‘cause I’m not letting my work get fucked up.” 

He felt her tense. “Douche,” she hissed, turning back around. Dean lowered the gun back to her skin once she was finished moving. Let her be pissed - he had meant what he said. 

The interaction set his teeth on edge and he powered through the rest of the piece without stopping. By the time he was done, the girl was pale and sweaty; normally, he would have given her a break, but he just wanted to finish. When he was done, she got to her feet somewhat shakily and gave the piece a cursory glance. Dean rolled his eyes and wrapped her up quickly before heading up to the desk where Kevin sat doodling on a notepad. 

“Give Dreamcatcher the run-down, I don’t wanna talk to her again,” he said sharply and Kevin arched an eyebrow but nodded. Dean stretched his back, stiff from over an hour’s work. He saw the tall guy sitting on one of the couches, one leg bouncing nervously. “What’s up with Walk-In?” he asked Kevin. 

“Said he wanted to talk to you.” 

“Huh.” Dean dragged the appointment book across the desk. He had two more appointments scheduled before closing - probably no time for the guy, unless he wanted something tiny. He headed over to the couch to tell him so. 

The guy looked up as he approached and he saw that the glisten of sweat he’d seen from across the shop was even worse: dude was dripping like he’d just run a marathon. His eyes were dilated and wide, and Dean could see his hands white-knuckled on his knees, one of which was still bouncing compulsively. 

“So - can you get me in?” the guy asked, before Dean could even say anything. Despite the fact that he looked like he was being held at gunpoint, he was pretty good-looking. Dean sighed. “Probably not, man. I got two more appointments lined up, that’s pretty much the day. One of the other artists might be able to - ”

“No,” the guy interjected, “I’d, uh, I’d like you to do it.” He motioned to the books on the table in front of the couch, full of pictures of previous work. “I like your stuff.” 

Dean rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Thanks, but I really can’t do much today - ”

“It has to be today,” the guy interrupted again, looking stricken. “It - it has to.” 

“Okay, look man,” Dean said sharply. “I can’t tattoo you if you took something. Against the rules.” 

“What?” The guy looked puzzled. “I didn’t - I haven’t taken anything. I swear.”

Dean squinted at him. “Were you...supposed to take something and didn’t?”

“No!” The guy jumped to his feet and Dean realized how tall he really was. “Look, I’ll explain. I, uh - I lost a bet, and the punishment is that I have to get a tattoo. Today.” 

Dean arched his eyebrow. “That’s a really bad idea,” he said flatly. 

"I agree completely,” the guy answered. “Especially ‘cause I’m fucking terrified of needles.” 

The bell above the door tinkled again and Dean covered his face with both hands. Emerging, he saw his next appointment - Walt, one of his frequent fliers, back for more work on his extensive back piece. He looked back at the tall guy, who was gazing at him imploringly. “Please,” the guy said, and with his pupils shrunken back down to a somewhat normal size, Dean saw that his eyes were a weird mix of blue and green and gold. 

“Jesus,” he said, throwing his hands in the air. “All right - what’s your name?”

“Sam,” the guy said quickly, looking hopeful. 

“Dean,” Dean offered his name. “You know what you want?” 

“I - know what I’m supposed to get.” 

“Oh, God,” Dean groaned. Walt was waiting for him, already seated in the chair. “God,” Dean said again. “Okay, Sam, listen to me. Come back at six. Eat something around five-thirty. No caffeine, no alcohol. Listen to some music, do some fucking yoga, something - try and calm down a bit. If you can, get me an image to work with.” 

“Thank you, Dean,” Sam said instantly. “Thanks - I’ll be back.” He turned to go, and Dean heard the bell jingle as he left. Cursing his soft heart - and the bell - Dean headed back to the chair where Walt was waiting. “Hey, man, how’s it going?” 

* * *

“You sure about this?” Charlie asked as she mopped the floor. Dean drew his feet up as she swung the mop toward him, shifting until he sat cross legged on his chair. “You hate this shit. I’ve never known you to do one of these things.”

“I know,” he agreed. “I make it a rule not to.” 

Charlie dropped the mop back into the bucket. “So why say yes? Why not tell the guy to fuck off? You got no problem telling everyone else.” 

“I don’t know,” Dean admitted, staring helplessly at the ceiling. “I honestly don’t know.”

The jingle of the bell startled them both and Dean spun around on the chair. Sam came in, peering shyly around the doorframe. “C’mon in,” Dean called, lowering his feet to the floor and getting up, careful not to slide on the wet floor. “Floor’s wet, so watch your step.” 

Sam picked his way carefully across the shop. As he approached, Dean could see that he looked marginally more calm - still scared, for sure, but he wasn’t covered in flop sweat or trembling anymore. 

He passed Charlie, offering her a smile as he went, and once he had his back to her, she gave Dean a wide-eyed, knowing look. “I see!” she said brightly, rolling the mop bucket toward the storage closet. 

“Thanks, Charlie,” Dean said loudly. “Lock the door, will you,  _ on your way out? _ ” 

“Sure, sure,” Charlie agreed, waggling her eyebrows suggestively as she grabbed her bag and jacket. “See you tomorrow, Dean.” She had time for a big ostentatious wink. Dean turned away resolutely. 

“Sit down,” he instructed Sam, who sank immediately onto the tattoo chair. “You look better.” 

“Yeah,” Sam agreed, sounding less confident than he looked. Dean side-eyed him. “Didn’t take anything, right?”

“No,” the other man insisted. “Jeez, you get a lot of that in here?” 

“Mostly drunk people,” Dean confirmed, “but sometimes more than that. People make bad decisions under the influence.” He looked expectantly at Sam. “Speaking of bad decisions - you got an image for me?” 

Sam scrunched up his face. It was adorable. Dean stamped that emotion down firmly. “No. But it’s supposed to be - a unicorn.” He wrinkled his nose further, looking up at Dean hopefully. 

Dean couldn’t help himself - he started to laugh. “Dude, what the hell was this bet? And were you under the influence when you made it?” 

As Dean continued to laugh, a grin spread across Sam’s face, sending a spiral of warmth through Dean’s lower belly. “No, I wasn’t. And obviously I was pretty sure I was gonna win, or else I wouldn’t have made it.” 

“I guess so,” Dean agreed, still chuckling. He sat on his stool and pulled his laptop toward him, opening it up. “Well, Sam, you got two choices. You can be literal and get exactly what you’re supposed to, or you can let me...interpret the source material.”

Sam smiled up at him. “I think the second choice is best.” 

Dean held up a warning finger. “Remember, this is going to be on your body forever. Or until you choose to have it lasered off. Which hurts like fuck and costs a shitload.” 

When Sam spoke, his voice was soft. “I trust you.”  

The words struck Dean in his chest. He could feel himself flushing, so he turned away quickly, dropping the laptop back onto the desk and grabbing his sketch pad instead. “Gimme a few minutes,” he addressed the paper. He could feel Sam’s eyes on him. 

* * *

They sat in companionable silence. Dean sketched, head down to avoid the steady glow of Sam’s eyes. 

“Can I talk?” Sam's voice, quiet as it was, broke the silence and Dean jumped slightly. 

“Uh, yeah,” he said, intent on his work. 

He waited, pencil moving across the paper, but Sam stayed silent. Dean shrugged internally and finished the sketch, turning the pad toward Sam. “Whatcha think?”

The sketch was of a rampant unicorn, reared up on its hind legs, front hooves raised as if about to strike an enemy. It was modelled after the kind of animal used on crests and insignia. It was fierce and powerful. 

“Oh, dude,” Sam breathed softly, running a long finger over the drawing. “This is awesome.”

Dean let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. “Yeah?” he asked quickly. “I mean, it's still pretty clearly a unicorn, but I thought it'd look more - ”

“It's perfect,” Sam assured him, those strange multicoloured eyes burning into Dean's skin. “Let's do it.” 

Dean blinked at the words. “Yeah, okay. How's the size? I can go bigger, or smaller.” He squinted at Sam. “Where are you putting this?”

“Where do you think it'd look best?” Sam asked. Dean stood, stepping back. “Stand up,” he instructed Sam, who complied, rising to his full height. 

Dean circled him, taking in what he could see of the other man's body. He was dressed simply, in a t-shirt and jeans, but Dean could see powerful shoulders under the fabric. Unthinking, he reached out and gently pulled the sleeve of Sam's shirt upward, revealing his toned right bicep. “Here”, he said, and his voice was lower than he intended, gravelly and rough, like he'd been drinking whisky all night. His fingers smoothed down the line of Sam’s arm. 

The skin under his hand twitched slightly as Sam flexed his bicep. Dean could feel his eyes on him, but he didn’t look up. “It’ll have to be a decent size, to show the detail,” he explained, and thankfully his voice seemed to have returned to normal. “In black, it’ll cost you four hundred and fifty.” 

“That’s okay,” Sam said softly, lowering his head. Dean looked up - mistake. His eyes caught Sam’s and whatever was burning in those coloured depths made Dean’s heart rate kick up. He stepped back quickly, letting his hand drop from Sam’s arm. He cleared his throat before speaking. “Okay, let me get the stencil done.” 

He turned away, grabbing his supplies. When he turned back, Sam was still standing, watching him. “You, uh - sit down. Makin’ me nervous.” He tried for a joke, but it just sounded like a confession. 

“Sorry,” Sam said, sinking back into the chair. Dean began to draw, copying the image from the sketchpad. Silence fell again.

“So how long have you been a tattoo artist?” Sam said after some time. Dean flicked his eyes up from the stencil. Sam was lounging on the tattoo chair, mile-long legs stretched out. He looked calm enough, except for his hand, tapping compulsively on his thigh. Dean tore his eyes away from the long stretch of denim-covered muscle, returning to his work. “About six years.”

“You like it?”

“For the most part.” 

“What’s the worst part?”

Dean flashed him a glance. “Idiots who come in to get inked because they lost a bet.” 

Sam grinned at him. “Fair enough.” 

Dean’s own grin was directed down at the stencil. “What’s your favourite piece you’ve done?” Sam asked. 

Dean raised his drawing hand, pointing his marker at the far wall of the shop. “Middle frame.”

He went back to the stencil as Sam swung his legs off the chair, standing up and crossing the floor to look at the image. It was a man’s forearm, thick and meaty, covered in a sleeve featuring a geisha girl. She held her fan above her head and light streamed through it, hitting her face in perfect rays. “My God,” Sam said, tracing a finger over the picture. “This looks like a photograph.” 

“I was so fuckin’ proud of that light work,” Dean said, sparing a glance up at the picture. “Still am. Never done anything like that since. It was amazing.” 

Sam remained where he was, staring at the image. Dean let him look a minute longer, before clearing his throat again. “Okay, c’mere.”

Obediently, Sam turned and walked back over to the chair. He went to sit down, but Dean shook his head. “Nope, need you standing.”

He circled around, holding the delicate stencil carefully. “You’re sure about the right arm?”

“You’re the expert,” Sam replied quietly. Dean pulled the sleeve up again, holding the stencil vertically about three inches away from Sam’s upper arm. He squinted critically, then lowered the paper. “Need you to take your shirt off.” 

Sam reached up, grasping his shirt at the back of his neck and pulling it up over his head. He emerged tousled-headed from the fabric and shook his head sharply, letting the long strands fall back into place around his face. 

Dean let his eyes rove over Sam’s torso, helpless. The smooth golden skin on his arms continued down across his body, the bright lighting in the shop highlighting toned, sculpted muscles. He looked like a fitness model. 

“Uh, great,” Dean said and his voice cracked embarrassingly. He laid the stencil down carefully and picked up his Nalgene bottle of soap. “Gonna clean the skin, then shave you down.” 

He cleaned Sam’s arm, then grabbed the single use plastic razor, carefully letting the blade glide over the contours of Sam’s upper arm. Finished, he wiped the area clean once more, then picked up the stencil. “I’ll let you see the placement, and if you’re cool with everything, we’ll get started.” 

“Okay,” Sam said, low and intimate. Dean took a deep breath, laying the stencil down on that golden skin. He smoothed his hand carefully over the paper, letting the ink set, before peeling it delicately away. “‘Kay, go look,” he instructed, pointing to the mirror nearby. 

Sam stood in front of the mirror, twisting back and forth from his waist, admiring the image. Dean watched the ripple of his muscles play under his skin until he had to turn away before he got too keyed up to work. “All good?” he said, dragging the cushioned armrest closer to the chair. 

“Yeah, it looks good.” Sam’s voice was pitched higher and Dean looked up quickly to see that a light sheen of sweat had broken out over the other man’s body. “It’s, uh - oh man, this actually happening.” 

He came back over to the chair, sitting down somewhat shakily and turning huge eyes up at Dean, who swallowed hard. “You haven’t done anything yet, man,” he reminded Sam. “It’s just a stupid bet. You don’t have to go through with it.” 

Sam shook himself. “Nah, don’t wanna have wasted your time. Let’s do it.” His hand strayed to his hair, playing idly with the strands. 

“You sure?” Dean said. “Don’t worry about me - this is your call.”

“Let’s do it,” Sam repeated, hand falling back down to curl in a light fist in his lap. 

Dean sighed. “Okay. Arm on the rest. Make sure you’re comfortable. If you need to move, warn me first.”

He let Sam settle in place before he dabbed carefully at the stenciled lines once more, drying off any of the sweat still glistening on Sam’s body. Eyes drawn to the notch of Sam’s collarbone, aching to hold the other man down and lick the drip that was slowly working its way down from his neck, Dean breathed deeply and tried to centre himself. 

He inked up the gun, settling himself on the stool and rolling in close to Sam’s arm. This close, he could smell him: clean sweat, a light, citrusy cologne, and something deeper, muskier. “Jesus,” he muttered under his breath. He looked up to find Sam’s eyes on him, still wide, but trusting. “Okay,” he said, clearing his throat yet again. “I’m gonna do one line first, just a little, so you can see how it feels. If you’re not good, we stop, I promise.” 

“I trust you,” Sam said, echoing his words from earlier. Dean swallowed hard, raising the gun. “Here we go.” 

The gun buzzed, the sound loud in the otherwise silent shop. Under Dean’s fingers, Sam’s muscles tensed as the tip of the gun touched his skin. Dean did a small section of a line, then lowered the gun, glancing up to check on Sam. 

His top teeth were digging into his bottom lip, eyes screwed shut. Sweat still beaded at his temples. As Dean waited, he cracked open one eye. “Was that it?”

Dean laughed. “The tiniest fraction, but yeah. How was it?” 

Sam opened both eyes, expression thoughtful. “Well, it hurt, but not too bad.” 

“Okay to go on?” Dean pressed. Sam nodded. “Yeah, let’s go.”

“Remember, if you need to move, or if you need a break, let me know.” Satisfied with Sam’s nod, Dean turned his eyes back to his work, raising the gun once more. 

* * *

After nearly an hour, Dean lowered the gun. He was about a third of the way done, but the muscles in his back and neck were screaming, and his fingers were cramping around the barrel of the gun. “Break time,” he announced, setting the gun on the table. He looked up at Sam. 

The other man was a little pale, but the sweat seemed to have dried up. He shifted his shoulder, grimacing slightly. “Ow.” 

Dean echoed the sentiment as he got up off the stool, stretching and twisting, flexing his sore fingers. He stripped off his gloves, dropping them in the trash. “Yup,” he agreed. He looked critically at Sam for a second before holding up a finger. “Be right back.”

He stepped into the back room and opened the fridge, removing one of the little bottles of juice they kept. Making his way back to Sam, he cracked the lid open and handed it over. Sam reached for it carefully with his left hand, looking up questioningly. 

“You’re looking a bit pasty,” Dean explained. “Sip, don’t gulp. And not too much. Don’t want you to puke.” 

“No argument here,” Sam agreed, sipping somewhat awkwardly at the juice, non-dominant hand clumsy. “Can I go look in the mirror?”

“Nope,” Dean said, taking a deep swig from his water bottle before bending at the waist, hands on the floor, stretching the aching muscles in his back. He heard Sam speak, almost too soft to miss. “Flexible.”

He straightened up, cocking his head. “Sorry, missed that.” The flush that spread over Sam’s cheeks, starting at his ears and contrasting strangely with his pallor, was echoed in the warm rush that raced through Dean’s body. “Nothing,” Sam said quickly, looking away.

Unable to hide the grin on his face, Dean followed suit, turning away and grabbing a fresh pair of gloves. “Ready?” 

“If you are,” Sam replied, rolling his shoulder once more before settling back down on the armrest. Dean cracked his fingers again, sitting on the stool and rolling over. He picked up the gun, loading it with ink. “Let’s do this.”

As before, silence fell over them, the buzzing of the gun the only sound. They stayed that way for a few minutes, before Dean spoke. “This part’s gonna hurt more,” he warned, as the lines made their way over to the fleshy inner curve of the arm. Sam twitched under him, hissing sharply, and Dean pulled back. “Okay?”

“Fuck. Yeah,” Sam gritted out. “Sorry.”

“‘S fine,” Dean said quietly, lowering the gun to Sam’s skin again. He worked as quickly as he could without sacrificing quality, Sam’s little gasps and inhales doing nothing for the steadiness of his hands. He wondered idly if the other man would make the same sounds during other activities. 

“Oh, fuck. Fuck.” Sam’s voice, low but urgent, broke Dean out of his reverie. He looked up quickly, lifting up with the gun. “What? You okay?”

The flush was back, painting over Sam’s cheeks and down his neck, onto his chest. He said nothing, and Dean rolled his stool back, trying to assess what was wrong. When his eyes caught at the bulge distending Sam’s jeans, he understood. “Oh.” 

“God, I’m sorry,” Sam said, sounding like he wanted to die. He tugged at the crotch of the jeans, adjusting himself carefully. Dean looked studiously at the ceiling. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, not trusting his voice. “It happens.”

It did - not often, but it was always memorable when it did. Dean had been doing a piece on a girl’s hip once when she started to quake and shiver under his touch. When he’d realized what was happening, he’d been nearly as mortified as she was. It had been an awkward finish. 

“Do - do you need a minute?” Dean asked, eyes tracking over the deep flush across Sam’s chest. When his eyes made their way back up to Sam’s face, he noted the sweat that had broken out over his brow again. Sam looked like he was ready to kill himself with whatever was readily at hand. “What’m I gonna do, go jerk off in your bathroom?” he said sourly, glaring down at himself. 

The visuals presented by the question raced through Dean’s head and he put the gun down to hide how badly his hands were shaking. “Do what you gotta, man,” he said seriously. Sam snorted. “Yeah, well, my right arm is a bit occupied right now.” 

Dean couldn’t help himself - and his sharp inhale didn’t escape Sam’s notice. He jerked his head up, staring Dean right in the face. Dean knew what he was seeing - flushed skin, wide eyes, lips open to let his panting breath escape. As they stared at each other, caught in the moment, Dean watched Sam’s pupils dilate, widening to swallow the colours of his eyes. 

“Fuck.” Dean let the word slip out, hanging heavily in the air between them. “Sam - ”

Sam reared up from the chair, composed enough to keep his half-tattooed arm out of the way as he reached out with his left hand, catching Dean’s collar and dragging him forward, stool rolling across the floor. “Dean,” he murmured, breath warm against Dean’s lips, and Dean was gone. He stood quickly, Sam’s hand falling away from his shirt, and kicked the stool out of the way, careful not to let it hit the armrest where Sam’s arm still lay. 

He moved quickly, decisively, not leaving himself time to think, to second-guess. He climbed up onto the tattoo chair, straddling Sam, knees on either side of his thighs. Above Sam now, he looked down to see huge eyes looking back up at him, pink lips parted, just begging to be kissed. “Dean,” Sam said again, and they both moved at the same time, Sam rising up as Dean lowered down, lips crashing together.

The kiss was fire: heat racing through their joined mouths to sizzle down Dean’s limbs. He could feel Sam beneath him, where their hips connected, that bulge he had seen now pushing insistently at him. He ground down into the touch and Sam moaned under Dean’s mouth. 

Dean let his hands dive into the long hair framing Sam’s face, tongue slipping out to slide between Sam’s eager lips. Sam made a noise of frustration against Dean’s mouth and Dean knew it was because he didn’t dare move his right arm. He more than made up for it with his left, though, the hand flying up to bury under the back of Dean’s shirt, fingers strong on his back. 

Dean rocked down against Sam again, feeling the other man’s hips snap up against his in reply. Sam whimpered, the sound breaking free as Dean pulled his mouth away. “Jesus,” Sam gasped, turning his head to let Dean push his face into Sam’s neck, giving in to that earlier urge to lick the sweat from the hollow of his throat. 

“Fuck, Sam,” Dean grated into the skin at Sam’s collarbone, hips grinding down once more, Sam shoving up to meet the touch. Untangling one hand from Sam’s hair, Dean skimmed it down over the golden skin under his fingers to one brown nipple, pulling and pinching roughly. Sam twitched under him like he’d been electrified. “Holy shit,” he gasped out, writhing beneath Dean. 

With the hand still buried in Sam’s long hair, Dean tugged gently and Sam let out a sound dangerously close to a sob. “Dean, Dean,” he panted, his own hand raking nails down Dean’s back, slipping under Dean’s waistband to tease at the crack of his ass. Dean moaned at the touch, bending sharply to arch his ass further into Sam’s hand, even as he took the same nipple he’d been twisting in between his teeth. Sam’s body went taut like a bow at the touch, and his voice when he spoke sounded wrecked. “Dean, I’m gonna - ”

“Do it,” Dean rasped back, biting at the nipple again. “Do it.” 

“Fuck, I need - ” Sam’s hand slipped out from Dean’s jeans, tugging insistently at Dean’s hipbone. Dean understood instantly, drawing his pelvis back underneath himself and grinding down hard, Sam’s cock pushing up at him from below, steel trapped between too many layers of clothing for it to be what they really wanted, but the friction just enough for what they needed. 

“Gonna come?” Dean muttered, slipping a hand between Sam’s back and the smooth vinyl of the chair, now slick with sweat, to drag Sam’s body closer to his. “Gonna come, Sam?”

Sam’s answer was a wordless groan, long and drawn out. He planted his feet flat on the chair, thrusting up hard to where Dean shoved back down, the heated lines of their denim-covered cocks dragging together. “Please,” Sam begged, tossing his head on the headrest of the chair, and Dean dove in to sink his teeth into Sam’s exposed neck. 

“C’mon, Sammy,” Dean growled into Sam’s throat. “Come for me.” 

Sam obeyed with a cry, arm wrapping tightly around Dean’s narrow waist as he thrust up once more, body wracked with tremours, hips stuttering helplessly. Dean felt warm wetness between them, seeping into their pants, and he ground down into the feeling even as Sam continued to quake beneath him. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Dean chanted as his own orgasm punched through him, come spilling hot into his jeans.

They writhed together for a minute more, panting harshly against each other’s mouths, tremours winding down into the soft, boneless collapse of pleasure-slack muscles. Dean nosed into Sam’s neck, feeling the other man’s pulse thrumming wildly against his cheek. 

Limp and fucked-out, they stayed pressed together as their breathing slowed and heart rates came down. “Holy shit,” Sam muttered, shifting against Dean, who hummed lazily in agreement. “You do this for all your clients?”

Dean snorted at the unexpected comment, laughter wracking his body. “Not really appropriate. ‘Specially during regular business hours.” 

“Shame,” Sam grunted as Dean pushed himself up to look down at him. “My arm doesn’t even hurt anymore. Seems like it would be useful pain relief.” 

“We’re not done,” Dean reminded him. He realized belatedly that he was still wearing his gloves, and he set about peeling them off. 

“With the tattoo, or this?” Sam asked archly, and Dean slanted a look down at him. “Both?” he suggested, grinding his hips down. Sam moaned, pushing weakly at Dean’s chest. “Stop. You’ll kill me.” 

Dean swung down off Sam’s body, somewhat unsteady on his feet. “You okay to finish?” 

“Thought I did.”

Dean swatted his left pec. “The tattoo, man.” Sam grinned, shaking his hair from his face. “Yeah, if you are.” 

“You can, uh, go clean up - if you want,” Dean suggested, flushing red at the words, feeling shy despite the fact that he’d just dry-humped a virtual stranger until they both came in their pants. “Just don’t do anything with your right arm.”

Sam climbed carefully down off the chair. “That’s how we got into this mess,” he reminded Dean slyly, heading past him into the washroom. 

Dean rubbed a hand over his face, shaken, and then set about cleaning himself up as best he could.

* * *

With both of them in some semblance of order, they got back to work. Each touch, each slide of Dean’s hand over Sam’s skin, each soft gasp from Sam at a particularly tender spot, was now heavy with promise. Dean tried his best to ignore it, head down and hard at work.

Finished, he put the gun back on the table and rolled away to scrutinize his work. He cleaned away the dark smears of ink gently, revealing the clean, completed image. “Go check it out,” he instructed, and Sam got up carefully from the chair. 

The unicorn reared from his arm, looking powerful and proud under the redness of irritated skin. “It’s awesome,” Sam said softly, reaching out to touch it. Dean grabbed his hand, warm fingers on Sam’s. “No touching,” he said, and Sam cut him a heart-stopping look. “Lemme bandage it.”

Working quickly, Dean covered the tattoo carefully. He plucked an aftercare card from the stand and handed it to Sam. “Follow these instructions. Don’t pick your scabs.” 

Sam scanned the card quickly, then tucked it into his jeans. “Thanks.”

Awkwardness fell over them like a heavy blanket. Dean felt smothered by it. His job was done, and now Sam would leave, would probably never come back - unless he lost another bet. To hide his feelings, Dean busied himself with the clean up, aware that Sam was still there. 

“Anything I can’t do while it’s healing?” Sam said lightly, breaking the silence. Dean didn’t look up. “No baths,” he said dully. “No swimming. No heavy exercise, at least for the first few days. Don’t wear anything too tight. It’s all on the card.” With everything tidied away, he had no further excuse to keep puttering around, avoiding Sam’s eye. He headed into the back room to grab his jacket.

As he went to exit the room, Sam blocked him, broad in the doorway. “What about taking someone home?”

Dean blinked up at him. “What?” 

“Can I take someone home?”

“I - if you - ” Dean swallowed, words failing him. “If they’re careful with you.” 

“Oh, they know all about tattoos,” Sam said, stepping in closer. “I’m sure they’ll know how to take care of me.” 

“Should be okay, then,” Dean breathed, head tilting automatically as Sam’s lowered, their lips inches apart. 

“Good,” Sam murmured, closing the gap between them. The kiss sank into Dean’s body, beneath his skin, permanent. Forever. 


End file.
